So Not Happening (8 page)
“What are you doing here?”
My stepdad reaches across the truck and throws open the door. “Climb in. Your mom's got another job interview.”
I hesitate, but really, what choice do I have? Go back into the building where the student body is waiting to attack me and use my body for a bonfire, or get a ride home with my non-dad.
I step into the cab and buckle up. My mom working . . . what is this world coming to?
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, fine.”
Great. Wonderful. Could not he better if the parking lot
swallowed us whole.
He guides the truck, now running like a new model, onto the road. “Your mom said there was some trouble at school.”
I stare out the window at pieces of the town. “Yeah, the fact that I'm enrolled there is trouble.”
“You want to talk about it?” Jake doesn't take his eyes off the road.
“Nope.”
“I know you're having a hard time adjusting here.”
Really? What was your first clue? I thought I was hiding it so
well.
“It's like everything I do here is wrong.” I can't believe I'm talking to this guy. “You know that story of Midas and everything he touched turned to gold?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I'm the opposite. Everything I touch turns to poop.”
Jake laughs, then sobers at my expression. “Ahem. I guess I can see what you mean. It will get easier though.”
“Your sons hate me.”
“They don't hate you. They're just not used to girls in the house. It's a huge change for them too.” Jake turns the wheel with one hand, and we're at McDonald's. “You got one of these in New York City?” He gestures toward the golden arches.
“Um, yes.”
“Well, they don't serve Häagen-Dazs, but it's not a bad place to get a hot fudge sundae. Do you want yours with or without nuts?”
“Without.” I'm maxed out on all things nuts.
He holds the door open for me, and I step inside. The place is nearly empty except for a group of old men in the corner having coffee and reading their papers.
We wait at the front while a pregnant girl who looks younger than me throws fries in the basket.
“You know,” Jake says, “the boys haven't seen a female in the house since their mom died six years ago.” He shakes his head, and his blond ponytail swipes his shoulders. “And now there are two. They need time to adjust too.”
We lock eyes, and my stepdad waits for me to say something. Something profound. Something meaningful in return. Something that reeks of understanding.
“I gotta pee.” I disappear into the bathroom, leaving Jake to order.
When I come back out, Jake is filling a large cup with Coke, his phone at his ear.
“Hey . . . um . . . no, I won't be coming in this afternoon. I know, I know. Something's come up.” His deep voice drops. “I'll see you when I can see you.”
I step in closer, my senses on high alert.
“I know I said I'd be in, but I just . . . can't. I'll explain it later. I need to be with the family right now.” He punches his straw in the lid. “Tomorrow. I promise I'll get away. I
will
be there. You're not the only one who has a lot riding on this.”
His back is to me and I wait a few seconds before I sidle up next to him, as if I hadn't been there the whole time. “That looks good.” I take a hot fudge sundae off his hands. I smile like the world doesn't hate me and I didn't overhear any of that suspicious conversation.
He studies me for a bit before handing me a drink. “Your mom said you like Sprite.”
I force another smile. “Very thoughtful of you.”
A few minutes later we're b a c o n the road, and I'm inhaling my ice cream like I need it to breathe.
My life just went public for all the town to see.
But now it's time to do a little digging and uncover all of Jake's secrets.
Because something smells rotten in the town of Truman. And it
ain't
the cow pasture.
B
ella, wake up. Your alarm has been going off for forty-five minutes.”
I cover my head and whimper. “Go away, Mom.”
“Logan's leaving in twenty minutes.”
“Tell him to have a swell day at school.”
“I can't take you today, so he's your ride.” Mom swats my rear and plops down beside me. “Are you ready to talk about this?”
“Two words,” I say beneath a blanket. “Life. Over.”
“We got a few random calls last night. People shouting horrible things into the phone then hanging up.”
“And those are the ones who still like me.”
“What exactly did you do?”
“See?” I throw off the covers. “Why is it always my fault? From the moment we've stepped foot onto Truman soil, I'm to blame for everything.”
She frowns. “So you didn't do anything?”
“Of course I did. But must we assign blame here?” Sitting up, I stare at my mom with serious eyes. “I'm never going back there. I think I should move back to Manhattan. This isn't working out for me.” Or the school-load of people I insulted.
Mother rolls her blue eyes. “Right. I'll give that some thought.” She doesn't even try to sound believable. “In the meantime, you're here, so off to school with you.”
“But you don't understand. Those people want to—”
“See you downstairs.”
If my mother has any small traces of sympathy left, she takes them with her as she leaves. I pull Moxie closer to me and find comfort in her warm fur and rumbling purr.
“All right. Let's do this day.” Moxie hops down only to run herself into a chair. I plant my feet on the floor, a total achievement considering everything.
I slip into some faded jeans, a vintage Chanel tuxedo shirt, and black flats. I leave my contacts in their case and reach for my small wire-rimmed glasses, a total package that says, “Though I am semi-cute, I am hung over with misery.”
Downstairs, I find Jake has already left for the day, and Budge and Robbie sit at the kitchen table with my mom. The three of them laugh over some shared joke, and the sound jars my already-pounding head.
I clear my throat. “Hey.”
The laughter stops and Budge slashes me with his narrowed gaze. “I gotta go.”
“Wait.” I fall in behind him. “You have to give me a ride.”
He looks me up and down. “I'm a mutant from outer space, remember? I don't
have
to do anything.” And he stomps out the back door.
Grabbing my bags, I chase him outside. “Budge, hold up.”
For a big boy, he can move quickly. I don't catch up with him until he's in the garage.
I move to the passenger side and fling open the door. “Please stop.” He starts the car, but I talk over the loud roar. “Look, I'm sorry. I know you've read the blog.” Though Mia assured me last night my posts were deleted, it had been too late. They had already been copied into e-mails and Facebooand permanently branded into people's brains.
“I don't care about your opinion of me. You're nobody to me.”
My heart pings a little at that. “You don't know what my life has been like.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I mean my life now . . . it's hard.”
Budge cranks up his radio but yells over it. “I guess we mutants from outer space have it easy.” He looks up, his curly hair covering his eyes. “Get out of my car—you know, the car I got at a funeral home's garage sale.”
“Budge, I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry. I was mad when I wrote all that.”
“Whatever, Bella. I'm out of here.”
He revs the engine, and I dive into the seat, barely shutting the door before he clears the garage.
Budge growls. “This is the last day I take you to school. I don't care about you—couldn't care less if your spoiled butt had to walk every day.”
“Thank you.” I lay a hand on my racing heart, grateful all my limbs made it into the car with me. “I really appreciate that—”
“Shut up. Just don't even talk.” He turns the music up even louder and the bass vibrates the windows.
Ten minutes later Budge pulls over on the side of the road. The radio goes dead. “Get out.”
I blink. “What?”
“You're two blocks from school. It's not a long walk.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He reaches across me and opens my door. “I don't want anyone to see me with you. Just because you've ruined your reputation doesn't mean you're going to jack up mine.”
I open my mouth. Then close it. “But these are two-hundred-dollar shoes.”
“Then watch where you step.” He points to the road. “Out.”
With as much dignity as I can muster, I heave my purse and backpack over my shoulder, slam the hearse door, and get to stepping. “I said I was sorry!” I yell. These people around here do
not
understand the word
forgiveness.
Two blocks later and I'm standing in the school parking lot.
I stare at the building, unable to move any farther. God,
please
help me. I don't even know how to pray in this situation, hut I need some
holy intervention.
With the weight of the planet and every other galaxy on my shoulders, I enter the building and head toward the English hall. I keep my gaze on the linoleum floor as I squeeze through the masses of students.
“Hey, rich girl!”
And the verbal game of darts begins.
“Can I get the numbers of your friends at your old school?”
“I got a one-way ticket back to New York for you right here.”
I duck into room 104 and take my seat in AP English.
Nobody says anything to me, but there's really no time. As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Palmer passes out
The Scarlet Letter
and goes into lecture mode.
She gives us a little background on the time period, then the characters. “Hester Prynne was a marked woman. She had committed a huge sin.”
The blonde in front of me turns around and glares.
“Hester was an outsider ...”
Three more students look my way. I feel my cheeks burn.
“She had offended the entire community and was a constant reminder of shame.”
So basically Hester and I could be twins. Could the teacher not have chosen something like
Death of a Salesman? HucFinn?
“She wore a scarlet A on her clothes at all times—A for adulterer.”
I turn to the gawking boy on my left. “I don't know what you're staring at, but my similarities with Hester just ended.”
When the bell rings, I all but run to art class.
My head snaps up when a shoulder connects with mine.
Brittany Taylor.
“Hey,” I say weakly.
Though her mouth doesn't move, the rest of her face says,
Drop
dead.
This is going well. Can't wait to come back next week and do it all again.
When I get to my assigned seat in art, a big glob of wet clay is waiting for me. A girl beside me snickers, but without so much as a flinch, I scoop up the wet mess, throw it away, and clean up the seat.
Mrs. Lee flutters into the room, stands in the center, then spends the next fifteen minutes discussing the joy of drawing an apple. She then places an apple on a table at the front of the room, claps her hands, and says, “Draw what you see!”
There are four of us at my table, and every single student surrounding me knows who I am.
“Hey, you—rich girl.”
I keep my eyes on my sketch pad.
“I drive a Ford F-150. You got a problem with that?”
No,
in fact, I'd give my entire purse collection for one of those
myself.
“She thinks she's something, doesn't she?” Ford boy nudges a tablemate, who joins in the conversation.
“I got a pig farm I'd like to show you, Miss Hoity-Toity.” He laughs. “You don't mind a little mud, do you?” He and Ford boy proceed to see who can
oink
the loudest.
“Leave her alone.” This from a tall girl with a Lady Tigers t-shirt.
“Students, I need to see you working!” Mrs. Lee circulates through the room, checking for progress. “And cease the barnyard noises.” The teacher asks as she nears our group. “Bella, you've drawn a poodle with gigantic teeth. I need to see the fruit. Be the fruit, my dear. Be the fruit.”
“Maybe if she had a pair of Wranglers on, it would help.” The whole class dissolves into giggles at this random comment.
“Students!” The teacher claps her hands, but the room doesn't quiet. “We need silence for the inspiration to flow! Concentrate!”
“I personally get inspiration from my
big how.”
A student two tables over smirks. “You know, 'cause I'm a cheerleader from the eighties.” More laughter. More comments.
I want to curl up beneath the table and cover my ears. I can't take much more of this.
Just as I contemplate the safety issues involved in jumping out the window and making a run for it, Mrs. Lee puts two fingers to her mouth and sends up a whistle that could break glass.
“Stop it!”
The talking comes to a halt.
The dirty looks do not.
The petite teacher surveys the room, taking in every single student. Then she focuses on me. “Come with me. Yes, you.”
I pick up my stuff and follow her down the hall.
“Don't take this personally, dear, but the students cannot work with you in the room. You 're disturbing thc flow of creativity.”
She smiles and pats my shoulder, then escorts me into the counselor's office. “Mrs. Kelso, I believe we need a schedule change here.”
The counselor, a blonde woman with a mile-high stack of files on her desk, looks up. “Your name?”
“I'm Mrs. Lee.”
She sighs. “The student's name, Mrs. Lee.”
“I'm Bella Kirkwood.”
“Funny you stopped by.” The counselor leans back in her chair. “I've had a lot of students in my office since yesterday—very worked up and upset. Seems they all claim the same maladyBella Kirkwood.”
S
unday morning finds me squished between Budge and Robbie in the backseat of the Tahoe. This is my first taste of the Finley family's church and, irony being what it is lately, of course the church is in the Truman High cafeteria. I'll be so busy reliving last Friday that I won't catch a word of the message.
Or I'll be mesmerized by Robbie's Sunday attire. Surely he will be the only six-year-old wearing spandex pants and a Superman cape complete with inflatable chest.
